Geoffrey Chaucer Quotes
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That field hath eyen, and the wood hath ears.
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For which he wex a litel red for shame, Whan he the peple upon him herde cryen, That to beholde it was a noble game, How sobreliche he caste doun his yen. Criseyda gan al his chere aspyen, And let so softe it in her herte sinke That to herself she seyde, 'Who yaf me drinke?'
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The guilty think all talk is of themselves.
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The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
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Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
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Up rose the sonne, and up rose Emelie.
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Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely, And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe.
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And yet he had a thomb of gold parde.
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I hold a mouses wit not worth a leke, That hath but on hole for to sterten to.
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And for ther is so gret diversite In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge, So prey I God that non myswrite the, Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge; And red wherso thow be, or elles songe, That thow be understonde, God I biseche!
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This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro; Deeth is an ende of every worldly soore.
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Or as an ook comth of a litel spir, So thorugh this lettre, which that she hym sente, Encressen gan desir, of which he brente.
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But yet that holden this tale a folly, As of a fox, or of a cock and hen, Taketh the morality, good men. For Saint Paul saith that all that written is, To our doctrine it is y-writ, ywis; Taketh the fruit, and let the chaff be still.
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And she was fair as is the rose in May.
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There's never a new fashion but it's old.
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O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up-groweth with your age, Repeyreth hoom fro worldly vanitee, And of your herte up-casteth the visage To thilke God that after his image Yow made, and thynketh al nis but a faire This world, that passeth sone as floures faire.
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Nature, the vicar of the Almightie Lord.
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Therfore bihoveth hire a ful long spoon That shal ete with a feend.
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Forbede us thing, and that desiren we; Preesse on us faste, and thanne wol we flee. With daunger oute we al oure chaffare: Greet prees at market maketh dere ware, And too greet chepe is holden at litel pris.
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Right as an aspen lefe she gan to quake.
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The proverbe saith that many a smale maketh a grate.
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There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
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Nowhere so busy a man as he than he, and yet he seemed busier than he was.
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Of studie took he most cure and most hede. Noght o word spak he more than was nede, And that was seyd in forme and reverence, And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. Souninge in moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.